


Though My Eyes Could See I Still Was A Blind Man

by sptmbrwind



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-30
Updated: 2012-10-30
Packaged: 2017-11-17 09:33:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/550136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sptmbrwind/pseuds/sptmbrwind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The blood gets everywhere. He can't help it, he just bleeds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Though My Eyes Could See I Still Was A Blind Man

Both his neighbors are on fire.

He's gotten used to it, of course. Lots of people are on fire here - mostly women but once in a while he'll see a burning man. His neighbors are both beautiful blonde women, one he judges to be close to his age, and the other much older. He thinks, anyway. It's hard to tell through the flames.

The younger one lives two houses down, on the other side of the empty building to his south. She waves to him when their eyes meet outdoors, smiling warmly as if she knows him. He'd caught her one night as they passed on the sidewalk, stilling her with one bloody hand on her elbow, and asked, "Do I know you?"

She had smiled at him, and said, "Of course not. You just got here."

Unable to argue with her logic, he'd just nodded and let her go on her way. He was new, so it made sense that he things to learn. He thinks he has made remarkable progress already - in the few short days since he arrived, he's already become accustomed to the walking dead.

The ones with the slashed throats are the worst. He feels sorry for them, unable to eat or drink or speak properly through their gaping wounds, but he still returns their polite nods of greeting as they pass one another in the street. The fire, he's used to, and the scattered fatal wounds are unsurprising. Some of them have no obvious injury aside from a haunted look that suggests a pain not visible to the eye.

So far, he hasn't met anyone who bleeds like he does, the constant drip from wounds unseen, but he suspects he's not that unique and one will turn up eventually. He doesn't go looking. Everyone is polite, everyone shares the same understanding, that they all have something to suffer, but aside from his neighbors, no one seems to show any interest in him. He knows he's accepted, but he's not one of them. Not yet.

He'd spent much of his first week wandering his house and the property surrounding it. He owns things, and he knows they're his, but he doesn't know how he got them. After several days of taking inventory, he'd ultimately decided they came with the house, which he also doesn't remember acquiring. It suits him, though. It's exactly what he wants, from the stocked kitchen to the sleek black car in the garage.

The place he's in has two suns, two bright yellow orbs that hang in the sky and seem to penetrate his soul. He went outside the first day, in the deserted streets, and saw people watching him from behind their curtains. He can still feel the burning light on him, and he doesn't go outside anymore before night falls and the yellow changes suddenly to black.

He spends the days instead working on the car inside his garage. It's in perfect running condition, but the steady metal clank and the growl of the engine when he cranks it soothe an ache he doesn't know he has until he feels it fade away. He hasn't driven the car. He doesn't have anywhere to drive to. The pantry remains stocked no matter how much he eats, and everything he wants is already inside his house. He keeps the vehicle maintained, though, because it's his.

The blood gets everywhere. He can't help it, he just bleeds. He makes a point to wash the car twice a week, and it's during one nightly car wash that he gets to meet his other neighbor face to face.

He's standing in the driveway, barefoot, rinsing the soapy water from the rear fender. The seats are cleaned, the interior spotless. He knows it's pointless, he knows he'll get it bloody again as soon as he drives it back into the garage, but he feels satisfaction for the brief time the car will be unblemished. The spray from the hose shoots back at him lightly, and red mixes with the soapy runoff as it drains down toward the street.

"It's a beautiful car," a soft voice says from his right, and he turns. The older burning woman is standing at the edge of her property, watching him from the flames.

"Thank you," he says, twisting the nozzle to shut off the water. 

"I used to have one. Just like that," she says. "I've enjoyed watching you take care of it."

"Really?" He toys with the hose, watching the grass at her feet, green and healthy and not at all affected by the flames that surround her, and wonders why her fire doesn't get everywhere like his blood. "What happened to it?"

"I lost it, years ago."

"Oh. Sorry." It's the longest conversation he's had with anyone since he arrived, and he doesn't know what to say, so he looks down and continues fiddling with the hose.

"I know I've been a terrible neighbor," she starts, and he looks up at that, because it isn't true. She's waved at him every time they've seen each other, just like everyone else. He doesn't interrupt, however, and she keeps talking, "but I noticed you out here, and I thought I'd come say hello. And maybe you'd like to come over and--"

He waits, but she doesn't finish the offer. He accepts it anyway with a nod. "I'd love to." He glances back at the car. "I just have to finish…"

She brightens beneath the flames, a smile spreading across her face. "Good," she says. "Of course. Just come over anytime you're ready." Then she turns and walks back to her house. He watches her go until she disappears inside.

~~~

The car is dripping dry and he changes into drier clothes before crossing the unseen line between their properties. He isn't sure how he knows, but he is aware of the moment his feet leave his own grass and step onto hers.

She lets him in, and leads him through her house without hesitation or complaint as he bleeds. Her house is nothing like his, and he eyes the decor with interest. They settle at the kitchen table, where she has two mugs of coffee waiting, and he accepts his with gratitude.

"You have a beautiful house," he says, because it's true. The coffee is hotter, stronger than the warm copper taste, and he holds it in his mouth for a moment before swallowing.

"Thank you. So you do," she says as she seats herself in front of her own coffee. He hasn't shown her his house, but he accepts the compliment. "You're the first visitor I've had."

"How long have you been here?"

"A long time. Years." She turns the mug slowly. "I wasn't sure if anyone would ever move in next door."

"No one was there before me?"

She gives him a tiny smile and shakes her head. "No, of course not. It's your home."

He nods slowly. "I'm glad. I love the place." He shrugs. "Can't remember how or why I ended up there, but I can't complain. It's perfect."

"It's where you belong. This is where I belong."

He takes another drink, gathering his thoughts, wondering if he should unburden himself to the woman while he has the chance.

She doesn't give him the chance. "Something on your mind," she says before taking a sip of her own coffee, and he notes that it isn't a question.

"I'm not," he starts, and then stops. He takes a breath. "I'm not sure I belong here. You know, it kinda feels like everyone-- Like they all fit in, or maybe they all know something I don't know. You know? Everyone's nice enough, but nobody really wants to talk to me."

"You just have to settle in first, then you'll get to know people." She studies him through the fire. "You can't introduce yourself until you have a name."

He blinks at that, surprised, and realizes she's right. He doesn't have a name. He hadn't realized over the weeks without conversation that he'd needed one. It just didn't seem important when there was only himself to talk to, but it made sense that he should have one. "How do I get one?" he finally asks.

"It'll come to you."

He considers that, and after a moment or two, asks, "Do you have a name?"

She smiles instantly, like she was awaiting the question, and says, "Yes. I'm Mary."

"Mary," he repeats. "That's a nice name." She's a nice woman. "Why are you being so nice to me?"

"We're neighbors," Mary says, still smiling. "We have to get along."

Again, he can't argue with that. "The girl down the street, she seems nice, too." He considers the empty house to his south, and the one on the other side of Mary's property. "Think anyone else will move in?"

Her smile fades, and she looks down into her coffee mug. "No," she says quietly. "I'd rather those spots stay empty." She looks up before he can question her, and meets his gaze with darkened eyes. "I'm happy to have you nearby, but I don't want anyone else." She looks toward the window. "You should go home. It'll be morning soon."

He nods and stands to leave. "Thank you for inviting me," he says politely.

Her smile is back, warm and friendly. "It was my pleasure. Feel free to come by anytime." She walks him to the door and pats his cheek affectionately before letting him outside. Flames tickle his skin as she wipes away a smear of blood. "Take care," she says before closing the door.

~~~

The next time he sees the younger blonde woman, she's standing on the sidewalk, looking out toward the invisible line between his property and the empty yard. He's returning from a walk around the block, and he comes to a stop beside her. "Hi," he says quietly.

She looks at him and offers a smile before turning back to the grass. "Hi."

He stuffs his hands in his pockets and turns to study the yards along with her. "So, I've been here a while now. Not new anymore. I was wondering, you got a name?"

She nods through her fire. "Jessica." She shoots a quick glance his way. "You?"

"I- I don't know," he confesses. "I was told I'd get one eventually."

"Who told you that?" Jessica asks curiously.

"Ma-- My neighbor, on the other side." He points toward Mary's house, reluctant to give her name if Jessica doesn't already know it. It feels like an intrusion. "She said I'd need a name before I could meet people."

Jessica follows his direction and looks toward Mary's property. "Oh," is all she says.

"Do you know her?" he asks, and when she shakes her head, he says, "Oh," and looks down at his feet.

"No, not yet."

"How long have you been here?" he asks, eager to keep the conversation going.

"Almost a year."

He's only been here a couple months, and he's met them both. "She's nice," he says. "I like her."

"That's good." She's quiet for a moment, then she turns away from the grass to face him. "So you need a name before you can meet people, but here you've already met two people."

He smiles at her. "I think neighbors are the exception."

"Of course. We're neighbors," she says, and that seems to be the explanation for everything. "I'll meet her someday," she promises, her eyes drifting back toward Mary's house. "I'm waiting for an introduction."

"I could--"

"No, you can't," she says forcefully, then offers him a smile. "It's not your place."

"Sorry."

"It's okay. Someone will, someday." Jessica sighs softly and looks down the street. "I think I'll go for a walk. Nice talking to you. Good luck with your name."

"Thanks. Bye," he says, watching the flames lick at her back as she walks away. Something feels urgent in the back of his mind, but he can't figure out what it is, so he lets it go and continues to his home.

~~~

He's sitting at Mary's kitchen table again, chatting about nothing and watching her make a pie when the words tumble out of his mouth. "Why doesn't everything just catch fire?"

He thinks she should be embarrassed, he should apologize, but she just looks at him over her shoulder and says, "Because I know why I burn."

He decides it'd rude to ask further, so he just nods and lets it go.

Mary looks back down at the lattice crust she's constructing before she speaks again. "Do you know yet why you bleed?"

It's the first time she's mentioned his condition, and he self-consciously moves his hands to his lap. The tablecloth is soaked through, and he studies the stain. "No," he says. There's a long silence before he continues. "I haven't thought about it."

"There must be a reason," she says, and he nods even though she can't see it. "I didn't know my name until I knew why."

"And I guess that'll just come to me, too?" She made a murmur of agreement, and he sighed. "How long is it supposed to take?"

"Everyone's different. It'll happen when it's meant to." As soon as the pie is in the oven, Mary pulls out a chair and sits beside him. She reaches out and takes one of his hands, folding it into both of hers. "You've seen the eyes? In the sky, during the day?"

"The sunlight?"

"That's when he watches us."

He frowns. "Who?"

"It's why we're all here."

"I don't understand what you—"

"You will." Mary pats his hand, then lets him go. "Then you'll understand everything." She stands and busies herself with cleaning spilled flour from the countertop while humming softly. They don't discuss the matter further. He returns to his house before sunrise with a hot apple pie and something just out of reach in his subconscious.

He spends most of the next few days and nights lounging on his couch, studying the play of shadows through the curtains and ignoring the pool of blood growing beneath him, but he can't reach any sort of conclusion.

~~~

The urge hits him as he's wiping down the upstairs bathroom mirror with the clean corner of a washcloth. He sees his reflection and pauses, then scrubs his face with the cloth. When he looks up, the image in the mirror is cleaner for a moment before bright red ribbons of blood begin to wind their way down his face. He looks down at the soiled washcloth, crumples it in his hand, then lets it drop into the sink before walking out of the bathroom.

He barely notices the steps as he heads downstairs. The nagging thing in his mind is louder. He pads barefoot across the floor, leaving wet footprints. He pulls open the door, and steps into the garage. 

The car shines in the light. It's clean, perfect, and when he reaches for the door handle, he leaves bright streaks of red on the black. He settles into the driver's seat, pulls the door shut, and puts his hands on the wheel.

He doesn't have the key. He looks out through the windshield.

He doesn't need it. He closes his eyes.

Blood. And another thing. He's not sure what it is for a minute, and then it registers.

Pain. Blood and pain. Two yellow eyes.

He opens his eyes and looks at his fingers wrapped around the steering wheel. He tightens his grip, feeling the leather, then releases and pulls his hands away. There's no blood on the steering wheel. He looks down at his hands. Red. He wipes one across his chest and it doesn't leave a mark.

He throws a glance around the inside of the car, and he understands. He died in this car. When he closes his eyes, he can almost remember the others who didn't. It's just out of his reach, but this time he knows it will get closer. And he knows something else now.

He climbs out of the car and pushes the door shut, the noise echoing loud in the closed space. He lets his hand rest on the top of the car a moment, then opens the garage door and steps outside.

He walks slowly to Mary's house, but his heart pounds in his chest. He knocks, waits, and she opens the door. She gives him a bright smile. Before she can speak, he tells her.

"I'm Dean."

**End**


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